Post by Bembe Brightwell on Jan 11, 2021 23:29:10 GMT
The country twang of Joe Diffie’s “Pickup Man” is an odd accompaniment to the scene of an Astro van covered in black rubber. The tires kick up pebbles and dust as it makes its way down the dirt road toward a massive poultry farm.
Coming to a stop at a row of iron chicken houses, Bembe Brightwell’s head pokes slightly out of the window, staring up at the sky. His neck cranes in all directions for a few minutes until making the determination that conditions were safe. It was an overcast day, but his neuroticism was still left unchecked. As soon as he opens the sliding door of the vehicle, he sprints to the safety of the closest building and slams the door behind him.
While typically filled with cage after cage of future McNuggets and Sam’s Choice microwaveable cordon bleu, the place was bare. Save for the mosaic of loose feathers and dried fowl droppings along the concrete floors, of course. This was the precise reason Bembe was here. Clad from neck to ankle in Carhartt with a pair of ruby red cowboy boots on his feet, the Living Lightning Rod leans casually against a push broom to assess the task ahead of him.
“Shoooooo-wh-wh-wh-wheee!” Brightwell exclaims, waving his hand over his nose to emphasize the stench of his present surroundings. “I’ll tell you what, puh-puh-puh-pardner. This isn’t a job cut out for city folk. A lot of people tell you it’s ‘safer’ and ‘more comfortable’ to wear a bandanna over your face when you’re cleaning out a huge coop. But there’s something about filling your nostrils with the smell of dust and duh-duh-dung that gives you the satisfaction of an honest day’s work.”
Bembe grins, expanding his lungs. He takes a deep, exaggerated inhale.
“Ahhh, now that’s the aroma of a...KYUH AHKUH KUH haaaaaaaaawckkkkk AK-AK-AK-AKUH…”
The hacking spell continues for minutes, as if he’d just chain smoked a carton of cigarettes at once.
“Nice,” he proclaims, attempting to gather his composure as he clutches his ribs. “Thought I was just going to get an arm workout puh-push-pushing this broom, but that oughta take care of my abs. A real farmer’s fitness routine doesn’t require fancy equipment, fuh-fuh-fuh-fffolks. Just a little elbow grease and a lot of sweat equity!”
“And let me tell you, if there’s one thing Bembe Brightwell isn’t timid over, it’s a little s-s-sweat,” he boasts, as if that were something that a normal person would be scared by. “As a matter of fact, if all the water in the world were replaced with s-s-sweat, I’d drink it right from the hose. Take a bunch of it, put it into one of those giant buckets at the water park, and have it pour a million gallons onto my head. Hold your armpit over a kuh-kuh-kuh-kettle and make me some tea. Wring your gym towel out over an ice cube tray and make me a tasty pop-pop-popsicle. What do I care? I love that shit! Where are you at when we actually need you, scientists? I’ll tell you where they aren’t: out here buh-buh-breaking their buh-buh-buh-backs like the rest of us.”
Brightwell nods to himself, moseying forward and pushing the broom down the long corridors to collect the debris.
“Me and Naty Zenigata aren’t scientists, that’s for sure,” he assures. “Our collars are as blue as the sky when it’s not covered in harbingers of deh-deh-death and destruction.”
“We both bust our buh-buh-buh-buns for Cheap Pops Pro in order to one day grab hold of its ultimate prize,” Bembe continues. “Oh yeah, baby. You know what I’m talkin’ about. That golden guh-guh-goose that everyone employed under Tony Russo strives for: the ability to get bookings from other pruh-pruh-pruh-pruh-pruh COMPANIES that actually pay well.”
“But Naty, my work here on the poultry farm won’t go in vain at the Six Shooter. Sure, we’re both huge s-s-sweathogs, but I am the s-s-sweatiest s-s-sweater that ever s-s-s-s-sweat. Not even Old Spice himself will be able to stop me.
“In order to prove it, I’m going to let you take a load off for the whole match,” Bembe offers. “I’m going to stack those buh-buh-buh-bales of hay, put you on tuh-tuh-top of my shoulders, and carry you up there. And once you grab that contract, you’ll do like any fellow worker and rip it in half so that we both can share the wealth!”
Brightwell stops mid-stride, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“At least I hope you will. R-r-r-right?”
Coming to a stop at a row of iron chicken houses, Bembe Brightwell’s head pokes slightly out of the window, staring up at the sky. His neck cranes in all directions for a few minutes until making the determination that conditions were safe. It was an overcast day, but his neuroticism was still left unchecked. As soon as he opens the sliding door of the vehicle, he sprints to the safety of the closest building and slams the door behind him.
While typically filled with cage after cage of future McNuggets and Sam’s Choice microwaveable cordon bleu, the place was bare. Save for the mosaic of loose feathers and dried fowl droppings along the concrete floors, of course. This was the precise reason Bembe was here. Clad from neck to ankle in Carhartt with a pair of ruby red cowboy boots on his feet, the Living Lightning Rod leans casually against a push broom to assess the task ahead of him.
“Shoooooo-wh-wh-wh-wheee!” Brightwell exclaims, waving his hand over his nose to emphasize the stench of his present surroundings. “I’ll tell you what, puh-puh-puh-pardner. This isn’t a job cut out for city folk. A lot of people tell you it’s ‘safer’ and ‘more comfortable’ to wear a bandanna over your face when you’re cleaning out a huge coop. But there’s something about filling your nostrils with the smell of dust and duh-duh-dung that gives you the satisfaction of an honest day’s work.”
Bembe grins, expanding his lungs. He takes a deep, exaggerated inhale.
“Ahhh, now that’s the aroma of a...KYUH AHKUH KUH haaaaaaaaawckkkkk AK-AK-AK-AKUH…”
The hacking spell continues for minutes, as if he’d just chain smoked a carton of cigarettes at once.
“Nice,” he proclaims, attempting to gather his composure as he clutches his ribs. “Thought I was just going to get an arm workout puh-push-pushing this broom, but that oughta take care of my abs. A real farmer’s fitness routine doesn’t require fancy equipment, fuh-fuh-fuh-fffolks. Just a little elbow grease and a lot of sweat equity!”
“And let me tell you, if there’s one thing Bembe Brightwell isn’t timid over, it’s a little s-s-sweat,” he boasts, as if that were something that a normal person would be scared by. “As a matter of fact, if all the water in the world were replaced with s-s-sweat, I’d drink it right from the hose. Take a bunch of it, put it into one of those giant buckets at the water park, and have it pour a million gallons onto my head. Hold your armpit over a kuh-kuh-kuh-kettle and make me some tea. Wring your gym towel out over an ice cube tray and make me a tasty pop-pop-popsicle. What do I care? I love that shit! Where are you at when we actually need you, scientists? I’ll tell you where they aren’t: out here buh-buh-breaking their buh-buh-buh-backs like the rest of us.”
Brightwell nods to himself, moseying forward and pushing the broom down the long corridors to collect the debris.
“Me and Naty Zenigata aren’t scientists, that’s for sure,” he assures. “Our collars are as blue as the sky when it’s not covered in harbingers of deh-deh-death and destruction.”
“We both bust our buh-buh-buh-buns for Cheap Pops Pro in order to one day grab hold of its ultimate prize,” Bembe continues. “Oh yeah, baby. You know what I’m talkin’ about. That golden guh-guh-goose that everyone employed under Tony Russo strives for: the ability to get bookings from other pruh-pruh-pruh-pruh-pruh COMPANIES that actually pay well.”
“But Naty, my work here on the poultry farm won’t go in vain at the Six Shooter. Sure, we’re both huge s-s-sweathogs, but I am the s-s-sweatiest s-s-sweater that ever s-s-s-s-sweat. Not even Old Spice himself will be able to stop me.
“In order to prove it, I’m going to let you take a load off for the whole match,” Bembe offers. “I’m going to stack those buh-buh-buh-bales of hay, put you on tuh-tuh-top of my shoulders, and carry you up there. And once you grab that contract, you’ll do like any fellow worker and rip it in half so that we both can share the wealth!”
Brightwell stops mid-stride, a thoughtful look crossing his face.
“At least I hope you will. R-r-r-right?”